by Fiona Walker
‘I’ve seen dozens of downtrodden girl grooms blossom under your friendship, remember?’
He gave a gruff laugh. ‘Never worked with you, did it?’
‘I was already in full bloom.’
‘You’re a whole bloody rose garden.’ The eyes creased again.
‘Watch out for the thorns, Luca.’
They were riding back onto the yard now, hooves clattering loudly on cobbles, Cruisoe and Beck shouting angry greetings at each other. She looked around for Pax whose car was still there, but there was no sign of her.
‘I’ll be out for the next couple of hours,’ she called to Luca as she jumped off. ‘Lester’s new ward has all-day visiting, so I’m nipping in this morning. That way, I’m here when Pax brings Kes back. She might need moral support.’ Running up her stirrups, she forgot her vow of discretion. ‘I hope you’ll be all right holding the fort? Keep an eye out for Pax? Remember to be nice?’
When she turned, she found he’d already disappeared into Beck’s stable. She led Dickon across to look over the door, watching him untack. ‘Petra has a Shetland that might suit this chap as a companion. I’ll ask. After what happened today, she owes us one.’
He took off the bridle, the stallion springing to the back of the box to hug against the wall. ‘I’d rather she lent us her mare.’
‘You’re not serious? There’d be a bloodbath.’
‘I disagree. She’d be good for him. I’ve seen it done before on yards, pairing a bolshy mare and stallion off-season. Sure, it’s tricky to start with, but the results can be spectacular.’
‘I’ll ask for the Shetland.’ Ronnie had never heard of anything so ridiculous. ‘Perhaps Kes can learn to ride him? Now be nice to Pax, Luca, or I’ll make you give pony lessons.’
*
Carly liked cleaning the Gunns’ house which was full of books, quirky objets d’art, family photos and high-tech gadgetry. The latter inevitably kept Janine distracted, usually a blessing, but today Carly wanted to quiz her about Skully and his hold over Ash.
As usual, Janine was taking a very long time to clean the kids’ playroom, a Tardis of consoles, screens, surround sound and interactive smart technology. ‘All the static makes for tricky dusting,’ she excused.
When Carly marched in with a mop and bucket to tackle the floor, she spotted her sister-in-law’s phone docked to download the Gunns’ latest music and movie collections, Janine’s meticulous console-button cleaning having ‘accidentally’ switched on the Nintendo, on which she was now ‘accidentally’ playing.
‘What is it Skully does to make his living?’ Carly asked, sluicing Dettox.
‘Matter of debate,’ Janine deflected, eyes on the ninety-inch curved screen where a cartoon redhead wearing unfeasibly large trainers was covering opponents in colourful goo, in a game of superannuated digital paintball.
Knowing the best way to engage her was in combat, Carly picked up a second controller and joined in. Years of close proximity to Ash playing snipers and felons had lent her a cruel assassin skill, a dragon tattoo away from psychopath. Janine’s little redhead was splatted in seconds.
‘Why d’you do that?’ Janine squirted the screen with Mr Muscle bad-temperedly.
‘You were telling me about Skully?’
‘I wasn’t, but if I was, I’d be telling you not to ask.’ She whisked off to dust a punchbag.
Carly mopped her back against the wall, boxing her in with two leather sagbags and a triangular floor cushion. ‘Why not?’
‘Just trust me on this,’ Janine sighed, spider’s leg eyelashes chorus kicking. Then seeing Carly’s killer face, she relented. ‘He’s harmless. Good man to have in your corner.’
Carly stared her down. ‘What does he want with Ash?’
‘What’s anyone want with Ash?’
‘You tell me.’
‘A piece of him.’
‘He’ll get a piece of my mind first,’ Carly fumed, letting Janine dart away to feather-duster the light fittings.
‘Skully’s got his knuckledusters in a lot of pies,’ she relented. ‘But it’s mostly protection work, I think. Bodyguards, doormen.’
Carly’s phone vibrated in her pocket before she could corner her with the mop again to demand to know more. Reading the incoming message, she let the mop handle drop. ‘So what would someone like Bridge Mazur want Skully’s number for?’
‘Contract killing,’ Janine breathed. ‘Everyone in the village knows that big Pole of hers throws his weight round. One call to Skully and he disappears – like that!’ She snapped her fingers, long talons flashing.
Janine deadpanned so well, Carly took a moment to see through it.
‘Either that or she wants his inky body.’ Janine gave her a who-cares? look.
Sucking her teeth, Carly mirrored it back. She knew when there were secrets being kept from her. But whose? Bridge might be a new friend she’d only met for coffee twice, but they messaged non-stop and she’d never come across as someone who would want to make the acquaintance of a local villain known best for fighting, fencing and fleecing.
Everything OK? she messaged Bridge.
A big smile emoji and a thumbs up came back. Looking to price some turfing.
Not in January, thought Carly. Not unless she was burying a body in the garden. She stepped outside to call Ash. ‘Skully still with you?’
‘Long gone.’ She could tell he was fibbing.
‘I need his number, then.’
‘Why?’
‘Favour for a friend.’
‘Who?’
She felt a fresh layer of misgivings settle. ‘Bridge.’
‘What’s she want?’
‘Usual reason someone would want Skully.’ It was a familiar game, shadow boxing around a bluff, pretending to know more than she did, hoping he’d let something slip.
But the only thing slipping was Ash’s finger across the screen button, cancelling the call with a quick ‘okay.’ A few seconds later, he sent through a vCard for Skully which Carly forwarded to Bridge with the warning: Don’t leave him alone in your house.
‘Helloooo!’
Carly pocketed her phone and Janine went into dusting overdrive as Petra burst in, dressed in mud-stained breeches, carrying mugs of coffee for them.
‘Forgive me! I went straight from my ride to the plotting shed. Had to get some ideas down. Everything all right, ladies?’ she asked distractedly, hurrying towards the stairs, then swinging back. ‘Carly, I need to talk to you about something later. Are you still staying on to help?’
‘As long as you’re okay for me to fetch my kids first? Their nan has the chiropodist coming.’
‘Mum’s got bunions the size of wine gums,’ Janine elaborated.
‘How lovely…’ Petra wasn’t listening, gazing instead at the huge multicoloured chandelier they dreaded dusting, a gift from her publisher in her heyday. ‘I have got the most sensational hero for the new book,’ she breathed. ‘I can’t wait to lock myself in a room with him.’
‘Bit of a Christian Grey, is he?’ Janine asked eagerly.
‘Much sexier.’ She pulled out her phone to show them. ‘My hacking buddy just WhatsApped this.’
‘Oh!’ Carly baulked at the sight of Bridge with a fat lip.
‘Sorry, that’s the selfie she took after a disagreement with the love of her life. Check this one out.’ A clip of a rider on a bronco-ing white horse started playing.
Carly pretended to watch, her mind racing, her hands immediately throbbing. Bridge had told Carly that Aleš didn’t want her to go back to work, that she had a job interview today; their rows were legendary and Aleš was huge and scary-looking.
As soon as she was alone, she called Ash. ‘This thing with Bridge wanting Skully’s number, maybe you should check it out?’
‘Don’t worry, bae. Whatever it is, he’s not going to be interested. See you later, yeah.’
‘Wait!’ She stopped him ringing off this time. ‘I think her other half might have clocked h
er.’
‘That’s their business.’
She thought back to Bridge, the frustrated stay-at-home-mum in a onesie, casting a spell to break them both free from closing the front door on dreams and ambitions. It’s not like that was really going to happen. Carly still had a bottle of bleach in one hand, a bucket in the other and a husband in a bad headspace. When Bridge had told her that she had an interview at the school, she’d just as quickly dismissed it as ‘low grade enough to preserve Aleš’s ego’. Nothing changed round here.
‘Walk on by, why don’t you?’ she told Ash. ‘Look the other way. It’s not like you’re serving queen and country any more. Just yourself.’ She rang off angrily.
*
Having examined her face in the bathroom mirror at length – the cut on her fat lip was a blackened mess around proud flesh, the scratches across her cheeks and forehead pure horror film – Bridge knew that even if she dropped today’s job interview, Aleš would take one look at her and bar her from riding again. It had to be worth getting a ballpark price from Skully the Medicine Cabinet, at least.
His phone was answered within a ring, the reception making it difficult to be understood, his evasive manner more so. ‘You’ve got the wrong number, love,’ he laughed when she’d asked if he had surgical-grade fibrin sealants.
Bridge explained again, seriously doubting the wisdom of this. ‘Like you’d use after a fight, you know? To close a wound.’
‘What d’you say your name was?’
‘Bridge Mazur.’
‘Never heard of you.’
‘Please, Skully. I really need your help. I live in the village. In Bagot. I’m a friend of Carly Turner.’
‘Hang on.’ The phone was muffled, a conversation going on his end, a bark of angrily exchanged words, then he came back to her. ‘You Flynn’s neighbour, yeah?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Been in a fight, have you?’
‘You could say that.’
The phone was muffled again, another exchange, quieter and more urgent this time.
‘You at home?’
‘That’s right, but I need to go out in a couple of hours. It’s really important I don’t draw attention to the cuts.’
‘Wait there.’ He rang off.
Immediately regretting the call, worrying she’d plunged herself into an underworld racket that could leave her scarred for life, Bridge took a quick shower before pulling on joggers and a fleece, hair turbaned in a towel ready to style later. Her face looked even worse scrubbed clean. If ever there was a day she needed her sister’s magical make-up skills it was now. She took a selfie and sent it to Bernie. Help! Urgent advice. Job interview in 2 hrs. Checking the clock, she remembered it was the middle of the night in LA.
WTF? Bernie had predictably not yet gone to bed.
Disagreement with a tree. Someone’s suggested surgical glue?
FaceTime me NOW.
The video call was still ringing through when there was a knock on the door and a tall, big-shouldered shadow moved behind the small glass square.
‘I’ve changed my mind!’ she called through the letter box, finding herself talking to a denim crotch, fly buttons excitingly bulging. ‘Sorry to waste your time.’
‘Open the door.’ The voice was husky, local and familiar.
She pulled it open on the chain to find Ash Turner, hoodie up, silver eyes darting from her face to the shadowed room behind her.
‘Delivery service.’ He held up a small tube of liquid. ‘You alone?’
‘Skully sent you?’
‘The wife thought you might be in a spot of bother.’ His pale grey eyes ran expertly across her face and then, brows lowering, he looked past her into the shadows of the house. ‘He’s gone, has he?’
‘Who?’
‘Your other half.’
‘He didn’t do this!’
He obviously didn’t believe her. ‘Kids here?’
‘At my sister-in-law’s.’
‘You going to let me in?’
She could hear her sister’s voice coming from the phone on the table, demanding to know why she was looking at the beamed ceiling. ‘Bridge! Hello! Don’t tell me you’ve fecking fainted?’
‘Tell me what I owe and you can just give me the stuff.’ She told Ash.
‘You’ll make a right mess of that pretty face if I do. It’s like superglue. You need me to do it.’
‘And you’ll do a better job, will you?’
‘See any scars?’ He lowered his face closer through the gap. Silver eyes level with hers, his skin bronze smooth. He smelled of soap. Thump, thump, thump went her shameful heart.
Bad, bad spell.
‘You’d better come in.’
*
Having taken out her latent aggression first on the muck heap and then the rug room’s neat, towering columns of ancient jute – why did Lester never throw anything out? – Pax had lost track of time. While she’d marked those to be burned, she’d heard returning hooves, her mother’s clear bell of a voice – ‘Be nice to Pax, Luca, or I’ll make you teach pony lessons!’ – and later a car driving away. Trying not to let her pride corrode her calmness, she was reminded why solitude suited her, far from the steam of winter horse breath, sweet-scented muzzles and the shifting percussion of tens of legs through straw. Because horses brought comfort, and comfort made her feelings come alive, and she didn’t want to feel anything. Feelings hurt right now, from the sting of false friendship to the acid attack of a wronged husband.
‘Bloody, bloody, bloody man!’ She caught herself hissing in time to her rug-folding and stopped.
Feelings were dangerous today, catching her at her most pre-menstrual, volatile and vulnerable. Because as well as making Pax lose control so that she shouted and cried and forgot to be kind, feelings brought with them the familiar soul-soaked need for a drink, her reflex comfort, even this early. They drank caffè correcto at daybreak in Italy, beer with breakfast in Belgium, raised Pimm’s glasses to toast the first on course at Badminton, so why not here? Her grandfather had always argued that the sun was over the yardarm somewhere in the world, hip flask brimming before dawn autumn hunting. Pax’s first drink had been at a meet, cherry brandy or blackberry whisky or some such sweetness that had given her the pluck to tackle hedges the grown-ups quailed at. By the time she was competing in Young Riders’ teams, she was well-accustomed to downing a vodka miniature in the back of the horsebox before each phase: the first to relax one’s dressage, the second to get the eye in showjumping, and the third made one fearless across country. They’d all done it, even Lizzie who got legless on a flute of Buck’s Fizz. But Pax was the one who couldn’t stop, who had ridden her dreams off a cliff.
Returning here so many years later, with liberation from a deeply stale marriage, came a sharp clarity of thought that was migraine-harsh at times. Talking to Alice had stirred a hornets’ nest of memories. There were too many long-buried regrets at the stud, the desire to seek the pure white simplicity of a fresh start overwhelming. Horses were in her past. Putting her foot back in the stirrup, as her mother advocated, would just mean riding into trouble again. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could bear it here.
The sooner she and Mack thrashed out some practical arrangements the better. Solicitor Helen was reassuringly on that case, although her firm advice was to stay put. It was she who had quietly recommended the village school as ‘the Bardswolds best-kept secret’. On paper, Compton Magna C of E Primary was perfect: sweet and much-loved, its classes smaller than any independent pre-prep in the area, a big emphasis on play. Pax had booked an appointment to look around it that afternoon, but as the time drew closer, she found herself dismissing it, telling herself that it was too uncomfortably close to her mother’s reach, that it wouldn’t be able to cope with Kes’s aggressive anxiety, that Mack would no more allow it than she would let Kes attend school in Scotland. Antisocial belligerence gripped her. She could stay hiding here instead of going. Or have a drink.<
br />
I’m out of my marriage, I can do what I bloody well like, she thought rebelliously, which wasn’t strictly true, but it made her feel momentarily elated. Whilst still never quite matching the giddy high of liberation she’d felt in Lester’s cottage kitchen on New Year’s Day, the daily doses of random euphoria were a much-needed Yang to the guilty, fearful Yin. She’d experienced happy headrushes doing the most prosaic of tasks from brushing her teeth to making a cup of tea, daily rituals that she now performed with an occasional jolt of recognition: I’m free. For all the hell she faced dismantling and rebuilding her own and Kes’s lives, she was finally free.
Getting up from his temporary Witney rug bed with a squeaky yawn and a back-kick stretch, Knott trotted to the door and looked back at her over his shoulder. The bright, innocent expectation in his dark eyes reminded Pax of Kes – the young expected their seniors to know exactly what they needed. She pictured her son on his first day in Reception just a few months earlier, swamped by his old-fashioned oversized uniform, trusting and excited as he put his hand in hers, the mother who’d already known in her heart that it was the wrong place to send him, that the draconian discipline Mack favoured would terrify him, that he deserved so much better than this prescriptive childhood born of a terminally ill marriage.
Despite her twenty-five-year head start, Pax still craved wise elders of her own who knew what she needed. In childhood, that had been her grandparents and Lester, always so decisive and capable. Later it had been Tim, the dashing big brother all grown-up in his London flat. Never her parents. Pax had no experience of close parenting until becoming one herself, and by then she’d turned gratefully to Mack as her wise voice in all things, already a father twice over. For most of her adult life, it was Mack who told her what she wanted and needed, what to do. Without him, she felt rudderless, uncertain if she trusted her own judgement, the wild elation flip-sided with a sense of being utterly lost. At her lowest, she wanted to phone him and ask him what to do.
Knott whined again.
‘You’re right,’ she told him. ‘He won’t pull the wool over our eyes any longer. I will see this school.’